The Living Statue
by Amory Sparkly Bat
Summary: After spending almost ten years as a living statue, the piece of art once known as Neal Caffrey has been forced into the gladiator's ring. When he runs into an FBI agent from his past life, it changes his world. The question is, will it be for the better? ***Sequel to 'The Undercover Gladiator,' events from Neal's POV***


**Title: **The Living Statue  
**Author: **Amory Puck (**pucktheplayer**)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** violence, slavery, non-con, mentions of forced bestiality as torture, non-descriptive watersports  
**Pairings: **Peter/Neal

This is the **SEQUEL** to **THE UNDERCOVER GLADIATOR!**

**Author's Notes: **Written for the 'mind control' square of my h/c bingo card on LJ. I have way too many WIPs, but I liked the idea of this whole gladiator thing, so I'm writing them as a series of short stories instead of a long fic... This is The Undercover Gladiator written from Neal's POV... probably need to read that one first to get this one 100%, though it *could* stand alone. You just wouldn't have the backstory about the world.

o o o

**The Living Statue**

o o o

"Are you finished?"

Neal froze, hands dancing nervously over the metal in front of him. "A-almost," he replied quietly, flinching as the guard made a sound of annoyance. "Just another minute, I swear… I just have to finish shaping it to his chest size."

"The plastique is already in, right?" the guard said as he stared down at the pieces of armor lying about on the table.

Neal nodded in response. "Yes. Yes, the explosives are set."

"Good," the guard said shortly. "Now hurry the fuck up. You go into the ring in an hour."

Neal's stomach lurched at the words, but he returned his attention to his work, gently tracing the lines he's so carefully etched into the hammered metal.

To any of these asshole guards, it was simply an image of Neptune, just like he'd been instructed. Neal knew it was more than that, though. That was no sea horse rising out of the water, and though it looked like a trident, at heart it was a spear in those hands, a spear that had once pierced a dragon's flesh to save a beautiful maiden. Once upon a time, Neal had considered himself like St. George, sweeping the ladies off their feet. Now he felt more like the maiden, only no saint was going to save him.

Neal wasn't sure how long he'd been a slave, didn't even know what year it was, much less the day or month, having long since lost everything but a few shredded remnants of his past. He didn't even remember why he'd liked the painting so much, or even what artist's hands had crafted it, but it made him feel warm, almost as if he was actually alive.

Once upon a time Neal had been someone, he was sure of that. He couldn't always remember who, but he was sure he'd been a person once. 'Statua,' they called him now, the Latin for statue, but he was certain he hadn't been born made of a stone. Once upon a time, he had been made of flesh.

When Neal had first been taken, he would have done anything to escape the agonizing pain and intense humiliation of being a pretty piece of rock locked away in a room rarely visited. They'd had to keep a guard on him at all times to keep him from shifting around, trying to relieve his muscles. After all, if no one was in the room to see him, why shouldn't he stand up from his bent over position and stretch? No one would know, right? As long as he was still when people around, he could be a person the rest of the time.

It hadn't taken long for Neal to realize that his hope was foolishness. For the first few months, there were always eyes on him, even if he didn't know they were watching. He spent twenty-three hours a day bent over with one arm extended like he was reaching for something while the other tousled his hair. He'd been forced to train his bladder to go only during the short break he got at four AM, when he was taken to the bathrooms, washed, fed vitamin water, bread, and kale, and given ten minutes to urinate or defecate. If he had to empty his bowels outside of this time frame, they would let him do it on himself. If he fell asleep and toppled over, he was beaten, then forced back into position immediately.

The man Neal had been before, the lover of St. George, couldn't bear it. The degradation and shame of it all was beyond what he could take, so he had faded away. Soon Neal could be left alone for months at a time and he would stand, totally motionless, for twenty-three hours in a dark, empty room, until it was time for his break. He would be carried to the bathroom for his ritual and returned to his spot once more. He'd even learned to sleep standing up in whatever position they put him.

It was a lonely existence, being a thing. No one ever spoke to him, and hardly anyone even came around to look at him. It was his master's private gallery, after all. Even when it had come time to move, Neal had been packed into a truck with all the other pieces of art, actually picked up and carried out rather than allowed to walk. The only real human contact he had was the rare occasions when his master would stop by and "mold" him into a new position.

Nobody could say humans weren't adaptive, though, and eventually Neal had become used to his existence, or maybe 'non-existence' was a better word. Still silence became his comfort, and 'the statue' became his identity. The only reason he remembered his name at all was because it was written on the plaque in front of him. 'The Fall of Neal,' he was called on paper, but everybody just referred to him as the statue. It was what he became in his heart.

Then, one day, his whole world came toppling down.

Neal wasn't sure why Julius no longer wanted him in his gallery—perhaps he was not as beautiful as he had once been?—all he knew was that his time as the statue was over, and he was expected to transform into flesh again.

Neal's first steps had been terrifying. He'd fallen, over and over, like a toddler trying to learn to walk, face slamming into the floor again and again. His muscles were still relatively strong from holding his body weight up along with whatever prop his master had given him, but they were so stiff that every move was agony. Oh, God, and *speaking.* At first, Neal couldn't even remember how to form words, and even now he stuttered whenever he started to feel like a statue again, which was any time he was around his master, whoever that might be at the time.

Unwanted and useless, Neal had first been sent off to some sort of brothel, where he was supposed to service men. All he really knew how to do, though, was lay there like a statue, and there had been complaints. He had then been passed onto some sort of club where they tied you up and hurt you, and at that point he'd begun to starve himself just so the men would pass him by and choose another boy.

Knowing what he knew now, Neal would have tried harder to please the men, but at the time he had simply wanted to escape the pain and get back to his still, silent world. Unfortunately, his foolishness had merely gotten him sent to a place so much worse.

Neal had survived two fights in the ring now, out of pure cowardice. In exchange for protection, he'd done things for his Ringmaster that he was ashamed to even think about, which was pretty terrifying considering his past. Several times he'd played the good little statue, staying in whatever ridiculous and humiliating position he was placed in while a gaggle of Centurions all did their best to get him to move, using their dicks as weapons against him. He had even let the fight dogs do… stuff… to him, his Ringmaster watching and laughing as the hounds fought for their turn with the man covered in bitch's musk. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. This fight might very well be his last. At this point, it would almost be a comfort to die. Death was still and silent, just like him.

He hammered out one last curve on the breastplate and then sat back, inspecting his work. It was beautiful. Too bad it would probably be blasted to pieces tonight.

The door to the room slammed open and Neal jumped, whimpering a little as his Ringmaster leered down at him.

"Hello, Statua," he said in a husky voice as he made his way over, grabbing Neal by the hair and hoisting him up in the air. "I heard you slipped a little bug in my armor, bitch."

Neal's whole body tensed, his mind screaming at him to turn to stone, but he forced himself to reply. "I-I d-didn't want to M-master," he said in a choked voice. "P-please, don't b-be angry. Th-th-they made m-me."

His Ringmaster apparently didn't find this to be a good excuse, because he flung Neal hard into the wall, sneering as the man slumped to the floor. "You want to know what I think of that, boy?" he growled, reaching under his war skirt.

It was never a good thing when a Centurion reached under their war skirt.

Neal let out a cry as warm liquid hit his face, grimacing as urine ran down his forehead and into his mouth. Tears stung his eyes as he turned his face away, letting out a sob.

His Ringmaster laughed cruelly. "Have a taste of that, bitch. You're all mine in the arena tonight."

As he walked away, tears began to run down Neal's cheeks, mixing with the piss on his face. At least he could be sure he wasn't really, truly made of stone. He was pretty sure that real statues didn't cry.

o o o

Neal sat on his little platform, arms wrapped around his legs, as he stared at the remote in his hand. There were three buttons, marked for both Centurions and whatever Gladiator he would be up against in this 'Meet Your Maker' mess. One click of it would blow them all to pieces… If they were within fifteen feet, that is.

All Neal had to do to "win" this game was kill the Gladiator, but he knew he'd never get the chance. It was a four person game, which meant one to each corner, and the two Centurions would be on opposite sides, meaning the Gladiator would be at the opposite end of the ring from Neal. Whichever Centurion Neal ended up closest to would definitely take him out long before the Gladiator got to him. If it was his Ringmaster, Neal might live to suffer another day. If it was another one of the Centurions, then Neal might truly meet his maker instead.

Honestly, he wasn't sure which one he preferred.

The platform began to rise, but Neal didn't make a sound, falling back into still and silent mode as he rose up, up, up to the arena.

The bright lights burned his eyes, but Neal didn't squint. He could go several minutes without even blinking. A few silly lights wasn't enough to crack him.

The crowd was screaming, as usual, but Neal hardly even heard them. He noted idly that there was a severed arm and what looked like a kidney lying in the dirt a few feet away, then slowly forced himself to scan the ring.

A Centurion that Neal didn't recognize was already having it out with the Gladiator at the other end, which meant… Oh, shit!

Once again, Neal's tendency to freeze up became his enemy in the ring as his master slammed into him bodily, knocking the remote from his hand and then dragging him to his feet, a wicked look on his face.

It was enough to spur Neal into action, and he began to scream. His master grabbed him by the hair and knocked his legs out from under him in one smooth motion, sending him toppling to the ground, face planting in the red dirt. Immediately the man dropped down on top of Neal, using his arms to hold down Neal's upper body.

Neal began to claw madly at the dirt, trying to get away, but it was no use, and a moment later the agonizing feeling of his master's dick up his ass got the better of him, his cries turning to animalistic howls.

This, apparently, was wonderful fodder for his master's cruelty, because the man hissed, "I guess you liked them dogs, huh, Statua?"

Tears and snot ran down Neal's face, an intense wave of shame washing over him.

Suddenly, his master's body collapsed on top of him completely, and Neal began to scream even louder, fighting the weight with all he had. An instant later, however, the weight was gone again and Neal was staring right at the breastplate he'd spent the past three weeks crafting.

The Gladiator! Oh, God, it was the Gladiator!

Full panic seized Neal as the realization set in. Unlike Centurions, Gladiators really had something to prove, especially at this first game of the year. It wasn't unheard of for them to do things like chop off a slaves legs, then rape what was left, or hack off the genitals and use them to choke the slave to death.

The grotesque images flashing through Neal's mind were enough to send him into action, and he leapt up, racing toward his corner as fast as he could while shackled by the pants hanging around his knees.

He dropped to his knees in the dirt near where his master had knocked the detonator, searching madly for it. Where was it? Where was it? There!

Neal grabbed the little remote, pushing down the Gladiator's button. He held his breath, waiting for the explosion, then waited and waited as the Gladiator stared at his boot like it had sprung another head. Oh, God, there must be a countdown!

The Gladiator turned suddenly and bounded toward Neal. Neal let out a cry and tried to run, only succeeding in tripping over his own feet, and an instant later the Gladiator's full weight—and he was terrifyingly big—hit him, taking them both to the ground.

Neal screamed and struggled underneath the weight, but it was no good.

"Better stop it or we both go up!" the man shouted, and Neal let out a sob, slamming his head down into the dirt.

"I c-c-can't!" he yelled, voice full of terror as he realized that, any second now, he was going to be nothing more than a lump of burning meat. "I can't!" And he really couldn't. There was no 'off' button. The Brotherhood wasn't that kind.

"Tell me where it is!" the words came out like a growl, and it took Neal a moment to process what they meant. The bomb. He wanted to know where the bomb was.

"It's in the r-r-r-r—" Neal gritted his teeth as his mind suddenly retreated into stone mode, preparing itself for an eternity of still and silent. "Oh God!" he shouted in frustration, forcing his mouth to work. "The right leg padding! At the t-top! G-g-get it off! Get it off!"

The weight on Neal disappeared, and what couldn't have been more than a second later, a loud explosion filled the air, making him cry out and cover his ears, whimpering. He forced himself to sit up and turn, then began to sort of backward crawl away from the Gladiator. With the bomb gone, he had no defense at all. Who knew what this man would do to him? Rape him? Mutilate him? Set him on fire? There was certainly enough burning rubble to do it if he wanted to.

Neal made himself look up, figuring he might as well look death in the eyes, then choked at what he saw. This man. He knew this man.

Images began to flash through his mind at lightning speed. Art. Banks. Fake. Police. Suits. Feds. Cons. Chase. Agents. Burke. Peter Burke. Agent Peter Burke. The Fed who'd been looking for him, the one who always seemed to know what Neal was going to do next back when he… when he… when he did whatever it was he had done back then.

"P-Peter B-Burke?" he forced out. Being still and silent wouldn't help him right now. Neal couldn't imagine why, in a thousand years, Agent Burke would be in the arena, but it was definitely him. Neal didn't know how he was so sure, but he was. This was important. Master should know. If Master found out and Neal hadn't told him, he'd get much worse than piss and dogs.

"M-M-Master?" Neal said, looking around without really seeing. "H-he's P-Peter B-Burke!"

"No," the man growled, his face wrenched into a terrible expression as he stared down at Neal with angry eyes. "No, that's not who I am."

It took everything Neal had not to just agree, or at the very least turn back into stone.

Now that the shock of the explosion was fading, Neal's brain was starting to whirl, faster than it had in ages. This was Peter Burke, but Peter Burke didn't want anyone to know he was Peter Burke. That was interesting. If Neal wanted to get out of this ring with all his parts intact, he needed to use whatever leverage he could. Maybe he could strike some kind of deal with the man before his master finished doing whatever he was doing and came back to rape Neal in front of everyone. Again.

"I-It is! I kn-know who you are!" He grinned a little madly at the man. "I know!"

"No!" the man shouted, lifting Neal up and then slamming him back into the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of him. "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll—"

Summoning every last bit of his courage, Neal cut in, saying, "I-I'll tell them! Let me g-g-go or I'll tell them!" The look on Peter's face was terrifying, but not nearly as terrifying as all the different ways Neal could die in this ring, especially after his master got to him.

"Or maybe I just kill you now, and you never say anything again," the man hissed, bringing his face close to Neal's.

The words slammed Neal's mind, and another wave of images flooded him. Woman. Pretty. Sweet. Laughing. Kissing. Honey. Hugs. Gentle. Honest. Loyal. Kind. Good. A good man. Agent Peter Burke was a good man.

"You won't, not like this," Neal said, heart pounding madly in his chest. "I-I know you, Burke." Or he remembered him a little, anyway. "You're… You're not a killer."

"I just killed Dick in a Skirt over there," the man snapped back. "Your theory has been disproved. Scientific Method, works every time."

Neal just lay there for a second, feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut, staring up at Peter in disbelief. Was he talking about Master? Who else could he possibly be talking about? Had he really killed Master?

"You k-killed Mas-mas-mas… Oh my God!" Neal couldn't even get the word out, he was so busy panicking. Okay, he'd killed Neal's master. That still wasn't the same as killing *Neal,* though. His master was a threat. Neal was only a piece of meat waiting to be destroyed.

Sweet. Warm. Gentle. Smile.

"Okay, okay! But you wouldn't kill an unarmed man in cold blood!" Neal wasn't sure he believed the words himself, not with the look Peter was sporting right now, but he had to say something. He didn't want to die. Did he?

"You tried to blow me up," Peter hissed, and Neal winced. Okay, technically Neal had already tried to kill him. But it hadn't been personal. He just didn't want to be fucked up the ass by the weird looking sword the man was toting!

Neal sucked in a deep breath of air and a strange feeling of confidence settled around him. It was frightening, but not all bad. He had a feeling that he'd felt this way a lot, back before he turned to stone. A movement behind Peter caught Neal's eye, and his mind leapt at the opportunity. "Look, we'll make a deal! You help me and I'll help you!"

The crowds began to scream as the Centurion from the other side of the arena charged in their direction.

"What could you possibly have to give that I would want?" Peter demanded, narrowing his eyes in a way that made Neal pretty sure the man was seeing pictures of his sore and bleeding ass in his mind and finding it not worth the risk. But Neal had something a little better to give than that.

His fingers tightened around the detonator still clutched in his hand. "A way to stop the Centurion that's about to chop off your head," Neal said, voice amazingly calm, and Peter whipped his head around.

Twenty feet. Eighteen feet. Fourteen feet. Neal hit the button on the detonator and the Centurion erupted like a hot dog in a microwave, blood splattering all over Peter, stray bits of burning flesh raining down around them.

The crowd roared with the nastiness of it all, and Peter stared down at Neal in shock.

"Are you insane? If he'd been one step closer, that would have killed us!"

So would the Centurion, but Neal knew better than to say so.

"I helped you!" he shouted, knowing he was grasping at straws here. His cards were all played, he had nothing else. The best thing now for Peter Burke would be to murder Neal and slowly and brutally as possible, maybe throwing in a few acts of perversion for the crowd's delight. That was what the Senate wanted to see, and Gladiators worshipped the ground those men walked on. But it was his only change. "I helped you, now you help me!"

Neal was amazed he managed to say that with a straight face, as if Peter owed him. You didn't owe slaves anything. That was why they were slaves.

Peter wiped blood and thicker stuff off his face with a grimace as he glared down at Neal with unfeeling eyes. "How am I supposed to help you?" he said, his voice sounding more taunting than anything. Burke was playing with him. "This is a last man standing game, and I can't afford to lose."

"Just get me out of the ring," Neal begged, not caring if the Gladiator was making fun of him or not. "Please, I can't take any more time in the ring!"

A strange look passed over Peter's face, and it had been so long since Neal had seen it that it took his brain a moment to process it. Pity. Peter was looking at him with pity.

Maybe there was hope. If Peter pitied him, maybe he wouldn't want to hurt him. Neal's master was dead, and he would need a new one. Maybe he could be Peter's statue. Or lay in his bed. Neal had learned his lesson about the importance of pleasing the men you were given to, and he wouldn't make the same mistakes again.

Even if Peter did want to hurt him, he wouldn't be able to do the sort of things Neal's Ringmaster did, not unless he wanted to ruin his home. Blood and piss and sweat and vomit didn't matter much when you lived in the Centurion stables, but Gladiators had nice homes. It wasn't safety, but it was better than what Neal had now. The question was, how to arrange it?

"Knock me out," Neal said, though he wasn't sure where these steady, calculating words were coming from, especially since tears were still running down his face. "Knock me out, then throw me over your shoulder and carry me out of the ring! When they stop you to say something to the crowd, say that you want me as your prize. They'll love it, the whole Tarzan and Jane thing." In fact, it would probably impress the Senate even more than hacking Neal to pieces. Hacking happened all the time. This was original. "They'll give me to you, and I won't have to go in the ring anymore!" He reached up, clawing at Peter's chest. "I'll never ask for anything ever again, and I'll never tell anyone who you are! Please, Agent Burke? Please!"

Peter stared down at him, lip curling up a little. Disgust. That was one Neal was used to, unlike pity. Neal held his breath, turning to stone beneath Peter as he waited for what seemed like forever for the Gladiator to make his decision.

"You want me to knock you out and carry you from the ring?" Peter sounded doubtful, and Neal began to nod, a little crazily.

"And tell the crowd I'm your prize," he begged. "Please, Burke, please!"

"Oh, I am so gonna regret this," the man said as he raised his hand.

A second later, everything went still and silent and black as night.

o o o

Neal was practicing a new mold, arms wrapped around himself tightly as he stared down at the slightly ragged cream carpet. It was a good color, cream, a color that wouldn't hide the blood.. A safe color. His new master couldn't rip him apart here, not without losing his deposit on the place, anyway.

The apartment was simple, but nice enough. Neal supposed that they didn't pay Feds all that well, if Master was still a Fed at all, but he would be a lot richer after tonight. Most of the Gladiators were already somewhat wealthy, wealthier than this apartment spoke of, but it wouldn't matter for Peter. It was obvious that the Senate had been very impressed by his display of power, granting him the title 'The Slavemaker.' He would probably be getting sponsorship offers right and left.

It had been about six minutes, and his eyes were starting to water, so Neal blinked.

"Hey, I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name," Peter said out of nowhere, not really sounding as if he cared. "We'd only figured it out a few days before you vanished. We always called you James Bonds, because the bonds you forged were so damn perfect."

Neal wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not, but it didn't matter. He was stone right now.

"So… What is your name? Unless you want me to keep calling you Bonds… James Bonds…" Neal's master laughed, maybe at him, maybe not. Neal wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything right now.

"Right," the man, sounding irritated. Apparently he actually expected Neal to converse. "So I guess 'Bonds' it is—"

"Neal," he managed to choke out, despite the intense urge to stay silent. "I'm N-N-N…" His tongue was turning to stone. He took a deep breath, trying to calm it. "Neal. I'm Neal."

"Right," Peter said, raising an eyebrow. "Neal… Kitty, right?"

"Caffrey," Neal replied without thinking, and his breath caught. Where had that come from? Only a few hours ago, he hadn't had any idea what his full name had been. "Yeah, C-Caffrey…" He gave a little giggle. "I-I can't believe I r-remembered that. I th-thought I'd forgotten my name." The shock won over his need for silent and still, and the words tumbled out.

"Shit, Caffrey, how long have you been like this?"

Like this? As in, like he was standing now, or like stone in general? Considering that Peter had been here the whole time Neal had been in this mold, he guessed it was the latter.

Neal's brow furrowed up as he tried to calculate and came up short. The truth was, he didn't have any clue. He hardly remembered anything from before. "What year is it?" he asked after a moment, and Peter's eyes flashed his shock, quickly followed by pity. Man, that was weird, being pitied. Best not to trust it.

"It's 2014, Caffrey."

2014? Neal gave a little gasp. It was 2014? Seriously? "Wow… That's… W-wow. I… I guess I lost c-count." That was an understatement. "T-ten years. Almost t-ten years. Since I was twenty-four. I-I'm th-thirty three now. That's… Wow." He frowned. "I don't… I d-don't feel th-thirty three." Actually, he felt a lot older than thirty-three, but the number still seemed high. He was well out of his twenties now. Strange.

"You don't look thirty-three, either," Peter said, looking Neal up and down with a critical eye. "You look about ten. Don't they feed you?"

Neal tensed, dropping his eyes in shame. "I d-don't like to eat," he admitted. After all, he didn't want Peter to think this was the best he could look. Nobody wanted ugly statues, or ugly whores, either. "I like being th-thin."

"You're not thin," Peter said in a brisk voice, "you're a goddamn skeleton."

Neal winced. Not a good start here. "I-I know," Neal said, the words coming out without him really thinking about it. "I'm still too p-pretty, th-though. S-sometimes I th-think about cutting up m-my face, but I'd just get in m-more trouble."

Neal blinked. Why the hell had he just said that? He had never shared that desperate thought with anyone, though he'd come close to actually doing it several times. Sad thing was, his Ringmaster probably would have just thought it was funny.

Why was Peter even involved in this? Neal couldn't remember much, but he remembered Peter being a good man. Smile. Hug. Kiss. Honey. Gentle. Kind.

"Are-are you underc-cover?" Neal asked, knowing very well he might get whipped for the question, but unable to stop himself. It just didn't mesh, the broken memories he had of Peter with the Roman Brotherhood.

"No," Peter snapped, sounding angry. "I'm not. I'm doing this for me, so I suggest you keep your mouth shut and do as you're told, boy. Whoever I was before, that doesn't matter now." Neal shrunk down, knees buckling a little at the words. "I worked hard to get here, and I don't want you fucking it up by talking about shit from the past. Got it?"

Woman. Sweet. She smiled. He hugged. A tender kiss. "Hey, honey." She was gentle. He was kind. Good people. Good man.

"Y-you're here 'cause you w-wanna be? Th-that doesn't seem like the Peter B-burke I knew." Neal regretted the words the second they were out, but it was true. Every time Neal ran Peter through his brain, all he came up with were good memories.

"Peter Burke is dead," Peter glared at him, lip curling up a little. "Along with his wife."

Neal's eye widened. His wife. The woman. The sweet woman. She was his wife. His honey. They were gentle. They were kind. And she was dead.

"Y-you're wife… sh-she's dead?" Neal said, stomach twisting. All those good memories of Peter were linked back to her. If she was gone, Neal had no idea what kind of person Peter was now. "I'm s-s-sorry."

"It's the FBI's fault," Peter said, the pain obvious in his eyes. "Some bastards we were about to bust got wind of it and broke into our house. Tied me up and hurt her, hurt her bad, right in front of me, the bastards. Then they killed her, while she begged. If I hadn't been working that damn case, she'd still be here today."

Peter didn't like people being hurt in front of him. That was encouraging, right?

"So you watch what you say, Caffrey," Peter added in a gruff voice, "because if you get in the way of my revenge, I will make you pay, and pay, and pay, and pay until I bleed you dry."

Or maybe not. A rush of terror washed over him, and Neal's mind screamed to retreat back to rock, but he didn't think Peter would like that now. He needed to make it clear he understood his place.

"Y—y-yes, M-m-m-m-mah-m-mah—" Neal forced himself to stop, sucking in a deep breath as he concentrated on making his tongue work. "Yes, Master," he finally managed to choke out. "I'll be g-good, s-sir."

"Since when do you stutter, Caffrey?" Peter asked, sitting down on the couch. The words were derisive, and Neal felt his cheeks go hot.

"S-sorry, M-master. I don't do it all the t-t-time. J-just when… J-just wh-when…" Just when his entire body was screaming at him to shut up and be still like a good statue.

"Just when you're scared," Peter rubbing tiredly at his face.

"N-no, M-m-master," Neal replied, wanting to make it clear that his stuttering didn't mean he was scared of Peter. Of course, he *was* scared of Peter, but that wasn't why he was stuttering. Peter could be a fluffy bunny and Neal would still stutter, as long as he held the title of 'master.' "J-just when I-I t-talk to m-my m-master."

"You were stuttering in the ring."

Neal's brow furrowed for a moment, then he realized that Peter probably didn't know the Centurion was Neal's master.

"It was M-M-Meet Your M-M-Maker," Neal explained. "M-m-my maker w-was there, sort of. Th-the m-man you k-killed. He was my R-r-ringmaster."

Peter patted idly at the couch beside him and, after a moment's hesitation, Neal knelt down on the floor and crawled over to the couch, setting his head where Peter had directed, staring up at the man.

"So… Ringmaster, huh?" Peter said, the words obviously a prompt. God, Neal was not used to this much talking. It was kind of freaking him out.

"Y-yes, m-master. Th-the Centurions t-train slaves f-for the rings. Not that th-there's really a l-lot of t-training. M-mostly just f-f-f-fuh…" Neal sighed, starting to get annoyed with himself. "M-mostly just other s-stuff."

"So if your ringmaster was dead, what would have happened to you if I hadn't claimed you?" God, were his master's questions ever going to end?

Neal closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect himself. He really wished he could go in the corner and turn to stone right now. It would be so much easier.

"I-I w-would either be g-given to another C-centurion or one of the B-Brotherhood would take me h-home." Hopefully that would be enough for the man.

"So you've been to the houses of members of the Brotherhood?" He sounded curious now.

"Y-yes, master."

"You can all me Peter."

"Okay," Neal said, though he knew he wouldn't be able to make the name roll off his tongue. It wasn't his place to argue, though.

"Have you ever been to Julius' house?"

Neal grimaced. Why in the world was Peter asking about Julius? Didn't he get that it was a taboo subject? The Brotherhood tended to make that very clear. He had to answer, though.

"Y-yes, I've been t-to th-three of them," Neal said. Or at least he thought it was three. If he'd really been there ten years, it might have been more than three. "I was a st-statue for a year at the f-first one."

"What do you mean you were a statue?" Peter asked, frowning a little. Apparently he hadn't been told anything about the slave he had been assigned to kill tonight. Neal wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"H-he c-caught me st-stealing his p-painting. That's how I ended up a s-slave," Neal said, deciding to answer the question as completely as possible in hope that he could stop talking then. "He p-put me in his gallery as a st-statue. If I moved or t-talked I got b-beaten. I h-had to hold a fl-flower vase over my h-head for a month once. I can sleep st-standing up now." Neal dropped his eyes. "H-he says I'm b-beautiful like a Michaelang-angelo. L-like D-David."

"So you know what he looks like. Julius, I mean," he added, as if that wasn't obvious. "Not David."

What the hell was Peter talking about? Neal had been in the ring tonight, hadn't he? Obviously he wasn't a statue in the house anymore. How was he supposed to know about Julius if he wasn't in his gallery anymore?

"N-No. N-nobody knows what J-Julius looks like." Neal frowned, not happy with this line of conversation. "Why?"

"But you said you lived in his house—"

"Th-three of them," Neal interrupted, the whole subject agitating him. The price for talking about Julius was very, very high. "Why are you asking?"

Peter shrugged then, like it was nothing. "Just wondering."

"Okay," Neal said, more than willing to drop the subject. Thankfully his master seemed to have finally grown tired of the chit chat and they fell into nice, comfortable silence.

Neal closed his eyes and tried his best to be very, very still.

o o o

The lock clicked and the door swung open, but Neal didn't react. He remained exactly where he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor—exactly where Peer had left him. He didn't even move his eyes to make sure it was really his master entering the apartment. That would take bravery, and God knew Neal didn't have much of that.

Peter's shoes appeared in Neal's line of sight, and a wash of relief came over him. At least he knew for sure now who it was.

"I've never had a slave before." The words sounded more like a question than a statement, but Neal honestly didn't know how to respond, so he kept his mouth shut. It was always the safest way to go.

"What do people even use slaves for?" Was that rhetorical? Neal decided to assume it was. After all, it didn't take a genius to come up with what people used slaves for.

The mattress bent as Peter settled down next to Neal, and Neal took that as a sign to slide down, falling to his knees by his master's feet. The bed was the only furniture he felt comfortable sitting on, but certainly not when his master was using it, too.

"I mean, like as a housekeeper thing?" he paused, frowning. "To wash clothes and stuff?"

Was that a joke? Neal wasn't certain. "A-anything you w-want, Master," Neal he said after a moment, his tongue only fouling up the words a little. "I can be a d-decoration, or be used for your pleas-pleasure."

Peter frowned, deep wrinkles appearing around his eyes. "A decoration? You mean the statue thing? How does a person be a statue?"

Neal glanced around the small room, looking for something that would make a good prop. He then stood, moving over to the bedside table where a small photo of a woman with black hair and bright blue eyes was sitting. He picked it up carefully, balancing it between his hands in what he hopes was an aesthetically pleasing way. He spread his feet apart, moving one forward a few inches so that if he fell asleep he would stay balanced, then he dropped his head, going very, very still.

There was a rustling as Peter moved around on the bed, crawling up the mattress into Neal's limited vision.

"What, then you just stand there like that for an hour?" Peter said, a hint of amusement to his voice.

Neal didn't respond, didn't blink, didn't even breathe deep enough for his master to see his chest move. He let himself retreat into the still silence of his head, tuning out the world around him, his limbs turning to rock.

Peter gave a little laugh, but after a moment, Neal saw him curl up on his side, a woeful expression on his face as he studied the picture of the woman.

"I miss her," he murmured, either to himself or to Neal. It did't matter which. Statues were good listeners, but they didn't have much to say. Peter's eyes were still locked on the picture in Neal's hands. "I miss her a lot." He went silent, then, and his gaze stayed latched on the photo, but Neal could see his thoughts wander away. Off to her, probably, wherever she was. Far, far away from this dark little apartment in the middle of the City, up into the clouds of Heaven.

Neal wasn't sure how long Peter studied the photo in his hands before the man's brown eyes began to flicker and a sleepy look came over his face. Slowly, his breath evened out as he slipped away into dreamland, leaving his new frame to watch over him in still silence.

The heater clicked on, Peter snored softly, and Neal faded away into nothing.

o o o

"Did you stand there all night?"

Neal jerked at the words, and he did his best to keep himself still. Being awakened abruptly made it a little difficult, however, and he was pretty sure he moved his elbow. Hopefully his master wouldn't notice. Julius always had, but Neal had a feeling Peter wasn't as interested in the arts as he was. Or as sadistic, either.

Peter was sitting up in bed, his hair tousled and his t-shirt wrinkled. There was a very disturbed look on his face as he stared, though Neal wasn't sure why.

"Neal, please tell me you woke you woke up earlier than I did and didn't stand there all night." Peter looked upset, and Neal's stomach flip flopped. Apparently his master had not wanted him around. Man, he hated getting in trouble for things nobody bothered to tell him not to do.

"I-I'm sorry, M-Master," he said, voice shaky. "D-did you not w-want me in h-here?" Maybe Peter didn't like people watching him sleep. Not that a statue was really the same thing as a person, but Neal did have the ability to watch and think, so in his case it might count.

"Give me that," Peter said harshly. Neal flinched a little as he grabbed the photo of the smiling lady out of his hands, smacking it down on the bedside table. He was obviously angry, but Neal didn't know why. He'd seemed happy last night, gazing into the woman's eyes.

"M-m-aster, if I d-did anything to upset you, I'm sorry," Neal said, swallowing hard at the still upset look on the man's face. Talk about a bad way to start off the day.

Peter's stared at him for another moment, then he let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Listen, Neal, I—"

What ever Neal's master had been about to say was interrupted by the buzzing of the doorbell. Peter looked sharply toward the hall, his eyes narrowing.

"Dammit," he muttered, looking back at Neal. "We'll talk about this later, okay?"

Neal nodded in agreement, though he didn't really understand what he was agreeing to. Hell, he still wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, but he wasn't about to say so.

Peter walked out of the bedroom and Neal just stood there, unsure what to do. After a moment he decided to follow him. Peter hadn't said not to, and his master might need help with his guest. It wasn't what a good statue would do, but he wasn't so sure Peter was fond of his new decoration.

The moment he stepped into the living room, Neal regretted his decision. Napoleon was leaning heavily on his fancy cane, a smirk on his fat face. A smirk Neal very closely associated with fear and pain and just about everything else bad in the world.

"Aw, there's my pretty thing," the man practically crooned as he caught sight of Neal. "This is quite a little toy you got yourself, Peter. Did they tell you anything about it?"

Peter shook his head as he shut the door behind the man. "No, sir. I just took him like he was."

"Well then, I will have the pleasure of enlightening you," Napoleon said with a big smile on his fat face. "Come here, Statue."

Neal obeyed, despite the fact that it was really the last thing he wanted to do. He slowly moved over next to Napoleon, bowing his head politely, heart pounding in his chest.

"First get those oversized rags off of you so the man can see what he won!" Napoleon ordered, his tone making it clear that he was displeased with the fact that Neal had not undressed himself already, despite the fact that Peter had given no hint that he wanted his slave in the nude.

Neal pulled his t-shirt over his head, revealing his thin, bruised chest, then dropped his pants to the ground, leaving him naked in the somewhat chilly apartment. Not that he wasn't used to being naked in chilly places. Galleries didn't tend to be heated like saunas.

Napoleon moved into his space, pushing him back a few steps then pausing, biting his lip in concentration as he looked Neal up and down.

"How about…" He reached out, using his hands to carefully manipulate Neal's body. Neal bent to the slightest pressure, making himself as malleable as possible, allowing himself to be molded as Napoleon pleased.

Napoleon carefully lifted his arms, intertwining his hands together up in the air, arms slightly bent, as though he was begging. He tilted Neal's face ever so slightly upward, then bent him a little at the waist. His cane tapped at the back of Neal's knees, and he bent those as well.

Neal took a steadying breath as Napoleon stepped back, looking pleased. Now it was time to integrate himself into the mold as much as he could. His masters didn't like it when his limbs shook, and he needed to get into a headspace where he could support himself in the awkward position without his muscles straining and twitching or Napoleon would not be pleased. It was all about mind over body.

"There," Napoleon said in a satisfied voice. "The statue can stay in that position for weeks, even months, with nothing but a single break to wash up, relieve itself, and eat. Usually one of our men would carry it out of the gallery to the bathroom—statues can't walk, after all—but now that it has spent time moving around, I am certain it can take care of itself if you leave out the supplies. This one is a beautiful piece of art." He chuckled darkly, a frightening sound. "Watch this."

Napoleon stepped forward, running fat fingers down Neal's hips, tugging lightly at his genitals as he moved around behind his work of art.

Still and silent, still and silent, still and silent. He was made of stone. Still and silent stone.

Neal wanted to whimper as he felt the cold, hard metal tip of Napoleon's cane slip between his ass cheeks, pressing into his hole, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything, because he was no longer alive.

A long time ago, this sort of thing would have brought tears, but statues didn't cry, didn't even feel. Neal let the world drip away as he sank down deep into his mind, the darkness embracing him. All things beyond faded to nothingness, and his whole body began to feel heavy and stiff. It was like being in one of those nightmares where you tried and you tried, but you couldn't move, only this was no dream. Neal couldn't move, not even if he wanted to. He was only a statue.

The pain in his ass, once so sharp and intense, had become inconsequential. In fact, Neal wasn't even really aware of it anymore. He was in his silent, still place, where everything was peaceful-

"That's enough, Napoleon." The words were savage enough to rock Neal out of his refuge, which wasn't easy to do. "The slave is *mine,*" he practically growled, taking a threatening step toward Napoleon, "and I don't want anyone else to fucking touch him. I won him and he belongs to me!" Peter slapped a hand on his chest to emphasize the point, as if the twisted, angry look on his face wasn't enough.

Neal would have gasped if he could. Who did Peter think he was, talking to a Senator like that? Was he insane? Nobody talked to the Senators like that, not even the greatest Gladiators in the world.

Apparently Napoleon agreed, because he yanked the cane out of Neal's ass hard, slamming it down on the ground. Neal almost lost his position at the movement, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain still.

"Who are you to speak to me like that?" Napoleon said in a low voice as he moved toward Peter, his cane leaving a bloody trail on the carpet that perfectly matched the color dripping down Neal's thighs.

"I'm the Slavemaker," Peter growled back, eyes narrowing. "And I don't share, with anyone. Not even you."

They stared at one another for what seemed like eternity, eyes locked in some sort of challenge, and Neal really, really wanted to run for the hills. Damn his useless legs.

Neal held his breath as they continued to stare each other down, matching scowls on their faces. Finally, just when he thought he was going to pass out, Napoleon broke, letting out a loud laugh, straight from the gut.

"You know what, Peter? I like you more and more every time I speak with you." The man shook hie head, an amused look on his face. "You're different from the others. You have guts." He glanced over at Neal, smirking. "And you claim what's yours." He reached into his pocket, pulling out an envelope and holding it out to Peter in an almost ceremonial way. "In here you will find my offer for sponsorship. Let me know what you think."

With those words, Napoleon turned on his heel, apparently ready to make his dramatic exit, thank God. When he reached the door, however, he paused, turning back around, a serious look on his face. "Oh, and Peter? If you ever speak to me like that again, I will chop off your testicles, sauté them, and serve them to you on a gold platter." A twisted little smirk. "Do you understand me?"

Neal thought he saw Peter's adam's apple bob nervously.

"Yeah, I got it," the man said gruffly, and Napoleon chuckled again.

"I'll let myself out then," he said, giving Peter a wink as he did just that. The door shut behind the man, and Peter gave a noticeable sigh of relief.

Neal was feeling relieved as well, though he didn't show it. He didn't show anything at all.

Peter moved over to him, bending down and touching the blood running down Neal's thighs, grimacing. Yeah, that was probably going to be a bitch to get out of the carpet. Goodbye deposit.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, the words surprising Neal. Obviously he was okay. He was alive, wasn't he? Well, as alive as a statue could be, and that was pretty much his definition of 'okay' these days.

Neal chose not to answer, much more comfortable remaining frozen in place than actually having to speak to his master. Silence was safe. Silence was good.

Peter frowned deeply as he moved around behind Neal, fingers carefully pulling apart his butt cheeks. More blood trickled down his thighs, but Neal didn't move. If his master wanted to fuck him, that was his right, no matter how ripped apart he was.

"This doesn't look good," Peter murmured, though Neal wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. What didn't look good? His ass? The blood? Him in general?

"You can still f-fuck me, Master," Neal said as evenly as he could manage, only stuttering a little. "It d-doesn't hurt so b-bad. Go ahead and f-fuck me."

"I'm not going to fuck you," Peter snapped back, sounding pissed, and Neal's stomach lurched at the words.  
Once again, he'd said the wrong thing, made his master angry. This was not good.

"You don't w-want me?" If his new master didn't want him, then what would happen to him? Would Neal go back to the ring?

"Is it b-because I'm t-too thin?" Neal asked a little desperately. "I c-can eat m-more. I can look g-good again."

Peter sighed and his hands disappeared from Neal's body. "Stand up."

Neal hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly obeyed, slipping out of his new mold and back into his skin. Peter turned Neal toward him, looking at him with something like disbelief.

"Can you really stand like that for months?" he sounded amazed, which Neal figured was a good sign. It was good to be amazing, right?

"Y-yes, M-m-master," Neal said eagerly, the words coming quick, even if they were broken. "I c-c-can stay like th-that for m-m-months. Years, if y-you want. I'm a st-statue."

And now the pity was back. Huh. Neal still wasn't used to that one.

"You're not a statue, Neal," Peter said, actually wincing at the words. "You're a person."

Neal frowned. "N-no, I'm a st-statue."

"Statues aren't alive," Peter said flatly.

"Neither am I," Neal replied without thinking, then frowned at the words. It wasn't exactly true. He did think and breathe, which made him alive. Hell, he's just been thinking that alive was kind of the definition of 'okay' for him. But he wasn't really a person, either. People weren't still and silent like Neal was.

"Motherfucker," Peter muttered, shaking his head. "They really fucked you up, didn't they, buddy?"

Buddy? Were they 'buddies'? Neal wasn't even sure what that meant. Was it a good thing, to be a 'buddy'?

"I-I'm a g-good statue," Neal said helpfully. "M-maybe I'm n-not so good in b-bed, but I c-c-can learn." He reached forward, going for the zipper of Peter's jeans, then frowning when his hands were batted away.

"I don't think so," Peter said flatly. "I'm not going to rape you."

Neal blinked, brow furrowing up in confusion. This wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. Neal had met a lot Gladiators over the past few months, and this wasn't how they were. Something was wrong here, but he couldn't think clearly enough to figure out what it was. His mind was too sluggish, like wet concrete churning, churning, churning waiting to be poured.

"Wh-why not?" Neal asked, voice a little suspicious, though he wasn't totally sure where the feeling came from. Statues weren't suspicious. They just stood there. He shouldn't be like this. What master said was right, and he should take it at face value.

"Gee, I don't know, because rape is wrong, maybe?" Peter replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Was that a joke? Neal couldn't tell. "A-are you b-being funny?" Neal asked, feeling lost. "Y-you're being funny, r-right? You're a G-Gladitor. You're g-going to have to rape p-people in the events."

Peter froze, like he was a statue himself, a weird look coming over his face. It was almost like he'd eaten something bad. "What?"

"Th-the events. There are g-games where you have to f-f-fuck people," Neal said, wondering how Peter could have missed that memo. Seriously, there was something off here. God, he wished it wasn't so hard to think!

Peter went pale, and alarms went off in Neal's head, his sluggish mind finally catching up with reality.

"Y-you lied to m-me," Neal said, without thinking. "Y-you're not here for y-your wife. You're here undercover a-after all."

"No," Peter snapped, going from pale and sick to red and furious in an instant. "I am not undercover."

"I d-don't believe y-you," Neal said, not sure why he was pressing this. Was he out of his mind? If master said something was so, then it was so! What was he doing?

"I am not undercover," Peter hissed through gritted teeth. "Don't make me fucking prove it to you, Neal."

Neal's eyes widened, and he wanted to take a step back, but he made himself move forward instead, until he was well in his master's personal space.

"Whatever you want with me, master, you can have," Neal said in a soft voice. "You are my master."

"I am not going to fucking rape anybody," Peter said, and from his wild eyes look, Neal didn't think he was talking about this situation in particular. "What do you mean, I'll have to fuck people in the games?"

"The Grab and Go," Neal said, tilting his head to the side. "The Menage. The Battle of Eros. Fucking games. You catch them, then you fuck them."

"I'm not undercover," Peter said in a low voice, and Neal nodded.

"Okay, Master."

"You don't believe me." The words came out stressed, and the look on Peter's face matched them.

Neal shrugged and dropped his eyes, hunching. "I don't know anything, Master. I don't even know why I'm talking."

Peter's hand appeared on his face, thumb stroking gently at his cheek, and Neal raised his eyes.

"This is a bad idea," Peter said, but it was obvious he wasn't talking to Neal, so Neal didn't answer. "A very bad idea."

Neal wasn't sure about that, since he wasn't sure what the idea was at all, but when his master wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close to his body, Neal didn't resist.

Peter's mouth was hot and wet, and Neal made sure to open his lips, massaging his tongue against the other man's. If there was one thing he'd learned about this, it was that he couldn't just lay there like a statue. If he wanted to please his master, he would need to interact.

It wasn't hard to unzip Peter's jeans, and Neal slipped his hands underneath the thick denim, one hand wrapping around the man's cock while the other worked down his pants.

Peter's jeans fell to the floor and Neal took a small step back before following them. The blood was still trickling from his ass, but the carpet was ruined anyway, so he ignored the pain in favor of wrapping his lips around the head of his master's cock.

This was one area where Neal had found it *was* good to be a statue. No matter how hard they pounded, how deep they thrust, Neal could take it all. His new master was no exception.

As Peter thrust his hips forward, Neal let his head go heavy, letting his dick slide in deep. He was making small gagging sounds, but he couldn't feel them, not when he was like this.

Either his master sensed that, or he simply didn't care how hard he rammed his slave's throat, because Peter took Neal's head in his hands and began to slam it down in time with his thrusts, sending his dick so far down that Neal might as well have been swallowing it.

Acid automatically rose up in Neal's throat, but in this state it was hardly more than a tickle, and he swallowed it back down. Still and silent.

On and on and on. Above Neal, Peter was panting and moaning, sweat trickling down his face. His fingernails dug into Neal's cheeks and curse words fell from his lips, but down below it was quiet.

Time was a funny thing when you were a statue. A minute could seem like an hour and a year could seem like a day, so Neal wasn't sure how long it took before Peter came, semen running down Neal's throat, and he didn't really care. He was in a nice place, a place where no one bothered him. He might as well stay there as long as he could.

Peter pulled away, grimacing as he touched his slick cock. "Dammit," he muttered, moving over to the coffee table and grabbing a Kleenex from the box sitting there. "I should not have done that. Dammit, dammit, dammit."

Neal didn't move, frozen on his knees, head bowed as if he was still being fucked. This was a good position, very comfortable. He could stay like this for a very long time.

"Hey, Neal…" Peter cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with this situation. "Are you, uh, okay?" He sounded embarrassed, really embarrassed, and Neal didn't understand why, but that was okay. He was used to not understanding his masters. At least he knew now for sure what this master wanted from him.

"Neal?"

Master was right in his face now, and Neal forced himself back to life, giving Peter a shaky smile. This master obviously liked him alive, so alive was what he would try to be. He would do anything if it would keep him out of the ring.

"I'm fine, Master," Neal said softly, accepting the hand Peter held out to him. And he would be fine. That was the best thing about being made of stone. A living statue could be whatever his master wanted him to be.

The End!


End file.
